


bad mirror

by ricepaperboi



Series: Back to the Start [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, bad aftercare vs good aftercare, implied edgeplay, toxic reltionships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricepaperboi/pseuds/ricepaperboi
Summary: “See? He’s exactly where he wants to be. So, what do you want with him, Soldier?” Boone’s eyes narrow. Mouth curls in a savage grin. “Rogers is a do-gooder, can’t stand to see his friends with scum like me. You? We all saw what you’ve done. You think you’re better? You think he’ll love you?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson/original character
Series: Back to the Start [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897069
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	bad mirror

Bucky prefers strangers to an empty bed. An endless succession of strangers is paraded through Bucky’s spartan apartment. They stay for a few hours and never longer than the night. They leave their smell of perfume or cologne, leaves scratches, leave bruises. Like an addict, Bucky increases intensity and frequency, trying to fill empty hours with someone’s bruising company. And he tells himself he is just killing time as if he does not move from one moment to the next in frenzied desperation, trying to feel something other than a simmering anger. And each new person to bumble through his door bites a little harder, digs their nails a little deeper into the skin. Each new person leaves Bucky feeling a little more scraped out and hollow. 

Phone belts out a high pitched trill in the early morning hours. Or Bucky thinks it is early. A quick glance at his phone and he finds it is near noon. Bucky turns his face into the couch cushion to muffle a weary groan. He does not answer but props himself up on an elbow. A growing collection of mugs sits on the coffee table. He reaches across for one, gives a tentative sniff and downs day old coffee in one go. It gets him slightly closer to waking. 

The phone stops ringing for hardly more than a few seconds before it starts again. Bucky reluctantly pushes himself into an upright position before answering. 

“This better not be an international emergency.” Bucky buries his face in the cool metal palm. 

“Not yet but my day’s just getting started.” Steve’s voice is tinny and crackles on the other end of the line. Whir of Quinjet engines can be heard in the background. 

“You don’t call halfway round the world just to chat. What’s going on?”

A beat. “Is Sam with you?”

Bucky rubs sleep for his eyes. “No, he’s at his sister’s for the week. You know that.” 

“He left a few days ago, won’t answer his phone.” 

“So you thought I was keeping him busy?” Hand delves between cushions to find a half finished bottle of vodka. He quietly uncaps the bottle to pour the equivalent of a shot into the mug and quickly downs the coffee laced liquor. 

“Listen, I know you aren’t the best of friends--”

“I like him well enough.” 

“--but you’re the only one in town. Do me a favor and swing by and check on Sam for me. Make sure he’s still breathing.” 

Vodka bottle stops short of another shot. “Well, when you put it that way.” A beat. “I’ll see you when you get back, Steve.”

“Thanks for this, Buck. I’ll see you around.”

Bucky takes a moment to jump in the shower and scrub the smell of last night from skin before throwing on the cleanest shirt he has left.

It takes a minute to get to Sam’s house, but Bucky weaves easily through traffic on his motorcycle. Sam’s car is sitting cold in the driveway. Blinds are drawn to make the house seem abandoned. Bucky trots up the stairs with a feeling of apprehension beginning to churn his stomach. He knocks several times to no avail. He calls with no answer, tries to peek through the small gap between blinds. Finally, he goes around back where the porch is partially obscured by the side of the house. Bucky makes as much noise as is possible with steel toed boots on soft grass. And, as he comes into view, he hears a quiet voice say “Bang.”

Bucky holds up his hands as he finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun. “I surrender.”

Sam is leaning against the porch rail, gun in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other. He wears a rumpled pair of trousers and grey undershirt, seemingly unfazed by the cold breeze cutting through the air. Weapon lowers and the ice clinks together in his glass. 

Bucky lowers his hands and lifts his chin to look up at Sam. “I called.”

“I’ve been busy.” Sam turns on his heel to go back inside. He leaves the door open, and Bucky follows and closes it behind him. 

Sam goes to kitchen island, bracing himself with fingers splayed on the counter. Shoulders sink with exhaustion, breath drawn in almost with consideration. Drink is down quickly before another is poured. 

Gun sits on the countertop between Sam’s hands. It does not escape Bucky’s notice. He chews on the inside of his cheek and thinks carefully on what he wants to say. 

“Steve send you?” 

Bucky watches Sam tentatively. “I thought I’d drop by,” he says knowing full well Sam sees through the bullshit. Voice adopts a note of concern. “People are getting worried.” 

“People?” Sam turns, leaning back against the counter with arms folded across his chest. 

Gaze flicks between gun and glass. “Right now? Me.” 

“I don’t need you worried about me. I don’t need you here at all,” he says with indifference.

Bucky holds his tongue as he watches Sam knock back his drink in one go. “Sam--” he begins as Sam pours another glass.

Sam holds up a hand. “Don’t.”

Bucky opens his mouth to argue, thinks better of it and nods once. “I’ll...stand here then.” He goes to lean next to Sam when a creased and faded photo catches his attention. Bucky reaches across to hold it gently between metal fingertips. 

In the photo, Sam is leaning against the side of a tank in his military uniform, eyes are squinting in the brightness of a desert sun and a grin threatening to split his face. Beside him, another man with sandy blonde hair is pressed to Sam’s side and kisses his cheek. They both flash peace signs, gold wedding bands catching sunlight.

“Is this Riley?” Bucky asks, already aware of the answer. “I didn’t know--I didn’t realize you guys were married.” 

Another fingerful of bourbon is knocked back. “Legally, we weren’t. We were so shit deep in missions and trying to rack up fly time for the program there was no time, not the way we wanted anyway. We got some rings in town, some of the guys in our unit threw us a party and that was it. Two days later I’m watching his leg blast right by my face.”

“Christ,” Bucky breathes. “I’m sorry, Sam.” 

Throat clears. Sam turns his face from Bucky for a second. “What’s another body to a war, right?”

And for a brief moment, Bucky is thrown back into a war that precedes Hydra and its clinical apathy. He remembers the smell of sulfur, of burning. He remembers the bodies shredded by bits of metal. He breathes slowly and buries all these things again in shallow graves in the tinny backdrop of his mind. 

“You can’t do that. Riley was your--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam says sharply. “I’m done talking about it. All of it. I want to leave it in the desert.” 

Gaze drops to the half finished bottle of alcohol. “You know that doesn’t help.” 

“I don’t need a lecture on drinking habits, least of all from you.” Sam straightens and steps into Bucky’s personal space. “Why are you even here? I don’t want to talk and I don’t want your sloppy seconds. Go home and tell whoever sent you that I’m fine.” 

If Bucky did not know Sam better he might have given the swell of resentment its due. But he quells it with a sharp exhale. “Sam, you’re drunk in the middle of the day with a gun next to you. You don’t look ‘fine’.” 

Sam looks at the weapon as if just noticing it before he slides it across the counter. “Take it. I don’t care.” 

“It’s not just the gun--”

“Dammit, Barnes.”

Fingerful of whiskey hits the counters edge roughly and without thought. Shattered glass skitters across the floor. The noise of it echoes in the sudden silence. 

Bucky takes a half step toward him. “Are you hurt?” 

“Leave me alone,” Sam whispers. He stares at the broken glass, lower lip caught between his teeth, hands shaking slightly. He turns his gaze up toward Bucky and it is hard as stone. “Leave. Please.”

Weight shifts from one foot to another. “I don’t...I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Brow furrows. “I told you I don’t need you here.”

“Sam, this doesn’t look good--”

Face is lined with irritation. “I don’t need a brain scrambled Hydra throwaway telling me how things look. Stop telling me what you think and go back to fucking whoever got you off the bar floor.”

The silence is deafening. Bucky feels a swell of anger rise in his chest. Teeth clench. “You really know how to be a dick when you want to. If I didn’t know you better--”

“You don’t.” Brow knits. Anger disaptes but he adopts the look of it. “You don’t know shit about me. Go home, Barnes.” 

Bucky gives a quiet sigh but reaches across Sam to take his weapon, double checking to make certain the safety is on and chamber empty before sticking it in the waistband of his jeans. “You’re right. I don’t know shit about you. But I know enough to know this isn’t going to help.”

“Did you come to that revelation just now? Because you still smell like cologne you hate and I can bet you didn’t get much sleep last night.” Sam leans close with a curious smile. “What’s beneath your shirt?”

“Nothing I didn’t ask for.” 

He is taking down another glass and pouring another drink. “Ho-ly Shit. Steve didn’t even say why he sent you, did he?”

“Does it matter?”

Sam snorts and averts his gaze with a murmured “Dumbass” around his drink. 

Bucky opens his mouth for a glib reply only to have Sam step into his personal space so close their noses are a paperthin distance apart, breath laced with the smell of liquor and his hand coming up to rest gently on Bucky’s neck. Bucky says nothing, too startled to even move. Breath is slow but heavy.

“I wonder sometimes what it would be like if it’d been you in the desert. But, of course, I’ve got bad luck,” Sam breathes as he leans back. His hand slides down Bucky’s neck, his chest, and comes to a swinging rest at his side. 

“I...I’m sorry?” Bucky shakes his head as if to clear it. Ears are ringing with the blood rushing through them. “I don’t think we’re on the same train.” 

Sam backs away and pats his pockets. “You should...you should go head home. Tell whoever--whoever sent you that I’m fine. Tell them...? Tell them I slept it off.” 

“Come out with me, Sam. We’ll grab a hoagie and a coffee from down the street.”

“No. No, my ride is here and someone’s waiting. I’ll call you tonight, ok? Hang on to these.” 

Sam tosses Bucky his keys which go far wide of their mark. By the time Bucky rights himself from scooping them off the floor, Sam is already halfway out the door. Feeling slightly guilty and more than a little curious, Bucky crosses the living room to look out the window. He catches the tail end of a cab car. 

A tremble works its way down Bucky’s spine, unease quickly filling the confines of his chest. For a second, he thinks maybe everything will be alright, that maybe going out with his friend is exactly what Sam needs. But then he shifts and feels the nudge of the gun at the small of his back and he is filled with uncertainty. 

Bucky reaches for his phone and dials a number he knows by heart. It rings once, twice. A faint echoing reply sounds from somewhere in the kitchen. Bucky hangs up with a breath of exasperation. Just as his hand falls and stomach begins to churn with a sense of inadequacy, his own phone vibrates. 

“Did you find him? Is Sam ok?” 

“You know, you’re real interested in Sam’s whereabouts all of a sudden. Something happen I should know about?”

“It’s nothing new, Buck. He doesn’t like to talk about it. You know how that is.”

Bucky rubs his forehead wearily. “Sam left, Steve. He was here a minute ago then left in a cab.” 

“A cab? Did you get the license? A Cab number?” 

“Local cab, partial plate. Hey, why am I surveilling Sam? Am I doing SHIELD’s job for them now?” 

“Often. But I can guess where he’s headed. It’s fine...I know where he is now. I can go--”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “Steven Grant Rogers, you’re not flying here to go pick up Sam from wherever the hell he is. Text me the address and I’ll check in on him. I’ll make sure he’s home safe.” 

The address Steve gives him is an old hole-in-the-wall bar with a peeling green painted sign that reads: Mac’s. Bucky knows military. And every single one of the patrons walking in and stumbling out screams of military. But there is no sign of the yellow mustang Steve told him to look out for or Sam. Bucky waits a moment before he goes inside. 

“Hey, I’m looking for my friend,” Bucky says as he leans against the bar. “Can you help me?” 

“Haven’t seen ‘em, haven’t heard of ‘em.” The bartender does not even look up as he wipes the beer-sticky counter with an already dirtied rag. 

“His name is Sam. He left his phone and--”

The bartender slaps a stained rag upon the bar and glares at Bucky. “Don’t you clowns have somewhere else to be? Can’t even let a man drink in peace? I swear the next one of you that busts my door is going to--”

“Going to what?” Bucky’s voice is dangerously low and his eyes narrow. “I’m looking for my friend. Either he’s here or he isn’t.”

“I know who you are. I know who you’re looking for. Fuck. Off.” 

Bucky exhales patiently. “You really have terrible service, you know that?” 

Two broken barstools, countless shattered beer glasses, and a broken door later, Bucky is sitting on the curb with his phone held between ear and shoulder.

“Heard Steve roped you in.” 

Bucky shakes out his hand, a bruise beginning to form across his knuckles. “You too, huh? Since when does Wilson need a babysitter? Can’t I leave the man to drink out a bad day with a questionable friend?”

Natasha hums in disagreement. “If he’s with his usual then there’s no definition of friendship that that man fills. It would be like leaving you with Rumlow.”

Bucky feels a twinge of guilt and uncertainty. “That bad?”

“I wouldn’t compare these kind of friends to Steve. You don’t have to do this, Barnes. I’ll give Sam a call--”

Bucky looks heavenward with a rueful grin. “He left his phone. You can’t call him, you can’t track it. He got into a local cab. Windows were too dark to get a look at the driver. Got a partial plate.” 

There are several seconds of silence. “I need to make a phone call. Don’t go anywhere.”

Before Bucky can protest, the line goes dead. He sighs wistfully and checks his pockets for a cigarette. He does not find one but goes to lean back against the sidewalk.

It is well over an hour before Natasha’s number flashes across his screen along with an address to another bar in another part of town. This time, Sam is out front leaning against the hood of a cherry red Charger, dressed in a jacket a size to large and sporting a pair of aviator perched precariously on the end of his nose. Pinning him there is a hulking blond mouthing at his ear. 

Helmet still on and visor down to obscure his face, Bucky lingers in a restaurant parking lot across the street. He waits, unsure enough not to intervene. And he cannot see the other’s face clearly, obscured by hair and the way he mouths at Sam’s neck. Sam indulges heavy displays of what could arguably be affection for a while with a tight smile. Finally, the man lifts his face and rakes sandy blonde hair back from his face. 

Bucky feels his veins run cold. A shiver runs down the length of his spine. He remembers, buried under hours of therapy and decades worth of his own crimes, a file he was made to study about a man  
with no legitamtely documented name or country willing to fight or kill for anyone with a pocket big enough. 

Motorcycle guns to life. Bucky pulls up alongside the car. He waits for the look of recognition from Sam and tries not to feel disappointed by an eye roll of exasperation. 

“Are you ok?” Bucky asks carefully.

The man sneers, laying his hand on the hood of the car between Sam and Bucky. “Who the fuck are you, mate?” Voice is layered with too many accents to pin down reliably. 

“Are you ok?” Bucky presses.

The man turns to Sam with a predatory smile. “You know this guy, Sam?” He runs his free hand up and down Sam's arm. 

"It's fine. Just a concerned acquaintance," Sam says, words tripping over themselves. He pushed the suglasses further up his nose. "I'm fine." 

"You're drunk, Sam. Let me take you home," Bucky says. 

The man's lip turns into a snarl. "Leave before I get irritated." 

Bucky ignores him. "Sam." 

Sam hooks a finger in the other's waistband as he moves toward the soldier. "It's not worth it, Boone." He looks to Bucky. "Go home." 

Bucky takes off his helmet to tuck it under his arm. "You know I can't do that." 

The man Sam knows as Boone, gives a low whistle. Lips cracking open to reveal a set of too white teeth, too straight and neat for the savage grin. "They sent Hydra's old lapdog to come collect. You really are hitting heavy nowadays." He wraps his arm around Sam's neck to hold him close, kisses his brow roughly. “Don’t tell me you’re fucking him too, Bird." 

Bucky calls his name again, looks at him desperately. "Please, get on the bike."

Roused somewhat in his drunken state, Sam squirms uncomfortably under the other's arm. "Give me some room," he mumbles. 

Boone loosens the hold he has around Sam's neck. Nose wrinkles as he glares at Bucky still smiling that savage smile. "What are you going to do, big man? Can't leave a couple guys having some fun alone?"

"I know who you are," Bucky says. "I know what you are. Step away from him and no one has to get in trouble." 

"Trouble? I'm a civilian," the other says laughingly and holds Sam closer. "Just in the States to see my mate. He has such a rough time this time of year. Luckily, he's got me." 

Bucky struggles not to roll his eyes and sighs patiently. "He's not leaving with you."

The smile drops and Bucky feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Boone steps away from Sam to take a menacing step toward the soldier. "I'm about done entertaining you Star-Spangled Banner Boys. Who called you? Was it Rogers? The Widow? Huh, boy? Who’s commands have you got now?" He mimics a dog with a short, bark of a laugh.

"Don't," Sam murmurs, leaning heavily against the car. "Don't do that to him." 

Boone turns back to Sam with a grin. "I'm just having fun with him, Bird.” He lay a hand almost placatingly on Sam’s neck. “Get in the car.”

Sam shuffles along as Boone pulls him back toward the passenger side of the car when Bucky steps in front of them. 

"He doesn’t leave with you." 

Sam squirms uncomfortably under the other’s arm, waving them both away as he goes back to lean against the hood of the car.

Boone snorts. "Are you his handler?”

Bucky’s patience is wearing thin. Irritation settles beneath the skin and he grips his helmet so hard the plastic creaks in protest. “I’m just here to take him home. Don’t make this difficult.”

“You really did become SHIELD’s dog,” Boone continues with a smirk. He steps closer to Bucky, lowering his voice. “Sam is a rare bird, isn’t he? He’s your eyes in the sky, an advantage. I watched you spangled freaks drag him around and smiling like the cats that got the canary. You think you know him because he flies around and saves a few lives like a guardian angel? You’ve never seen him in the heat, on the ground, bloody, doing truly _beautiful_ work.” He turns his chin to reveal a jagged, ropey scar curving from the tip of his chin down near his carotid and dipping beneath the collar of his shirt. “You’ll never know him like I do.” 

Bucky sneers slightly. “I hope so.”

Sam clears his throat obnoxiously loud and slaps his hand on the hood.. “Are you done? It’s still daylight and you’re both boring me. Stop trying to pick a fight, Boone, and let’s go.”

“See? He’s exactly where he wants to be. So, what do you want with him, Soldier?” Boone’s eyes narrow. “Rogers is a do-gooder, can’t stand to see his friends with scum like me. You? We all saw what you’ve done. You think you’re better? You think you can fuck him better? You think he’ll _love_ you?”

Teeth clench and a muscle in his jaw tenses. 

Sam pushes off the car. “Watching you posture is making me sick. I’m going inside for a drink.”

“You look like you’ve had enough,” Bucky says gently. “There’s still that coffee.”

“I think our flyboy can choose his own drinks.” Boone wraps his arms around Sam to pull him flush and nose at the back of his neck. 

Sam taps his forearm. “Give us a second.” 

Boone slips his hand beneath Sam’s shirt for a quick second before he pulls away. “I’ll grab you something from inside.” 

“Why him?” Bucky asks as the other walks away. 

Sam looks after Boone. “Bad timing.” He looks at Bucky, gaze drops. “What are you doing here?” 

Bucky’s gaze flicks between hazy brown eyes. “I’m worried.” 

Sam tucks his hands in the pockets of a jacket a size too big. “I don’t know what Steve told you--”

“He didn’t.” 

“--but I’m fine. Boone is...loyal.” Sam shrugs absentmindedly. 

“You know who he is? What he’s done?” 

Sam gives a short, hollow laugh. “I testified against him. Told my C.O. he should be put in front of a firing squad. He sent flowers.” 

“Christ, Sam.” Bucky presses his helmet against the other’s chest. “If you won’t go with me then wait till a cab comes..”

Another hollow laugh. “No one’s going to think less of you if you leave. You’ve done awesome, absolutely awesome. Really went out of your way.” He pats his pockets. “Here. My house is closer. Take my...take my keys. It’ll be late by the time you get back--back home.”

Bucky pulls both Sam’s keys and phone from his pocket. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have that coffee?”

Sam shakes his head with a sad lingering smile. “Not today.”

Bucky bites his lip but hands Sam his phone. “I’ll wait at yours until morning. Promise you’ll keep your phone. Do you know where you’ll go?” 

“A safe house. I’ll turn my phone off. For myself more than him. I need this, Barnes. You get that right?” 

Bucky sets his teeth as he sees Boone exit the bar. “You are way too drunk to be making good decisions.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s tradition. He’ll be on a plane before sunrise. Crash in the guest room. We’ll have coffee before the morning’s over.” 

Boone begins a quiet bark as he nears. He stops short of stepping into the soldier’s personal space by the arm Sam wraps around his waist. “Before you get too worked up on him, don’t forget we’ve got plans.” 

Bucky steps out of Sam’s way to let him into the car. Face is lined with disgust as his eye meets Boone.

“Relax, Soldier,” Boone says with a wink. “I’ll try and have him back in one piece.” 

Teeth clenched, Bucky does as they discuss, pacing the length of Sam’s living room nervously while deflecting calls from Steve and Natasha. 

Sam stumbles in after one in the morning to the quickly fading cab taillights. He’s lost the clothes from before and dressed in jeans and a shirt a size too big. Arm goes out to brace himself against the wall as he kicks off his shoes, body trembling. Bucky moves to meet him, holds his arm out as Sam goes to shuffle pass. His gaze rises to meet Bucky.

“Oh, you’re here,” Sam says quietly, gaze vacant. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to take a shower.”

He looks like he’s been put through the gamut. Body is sagging as if completely drained of energy. Neck and arms are lined with discolorations that trail beneath clothes.

Bucky presses his lips tight and gently lays his hand on Sam’s shoulder to feel him trembling, barely able to hold his head up. The faint smell of gunpowder drifts off the cotton fibers of his shirt. A wave of guilt rises up in Bucky, his heart crawling up into his throat. He swallows hard. “Let me help you?”

Sam nods slowly. Carefully. 

Bucky has to carry him up the stairs. Too exhausted to lift his legs, Sam nearly makes a beeline to collapse onto the couch when Bucky hoists him onto his back, a quiet whimper escaping the other.  
Sam leans against the doorframe of the bathroom as Bucky runs a bath. Head rests against the wood, gaze stuck on a spot on the sink. He does not move or react several times Bucky calls his name. He still trembles somewhat.

Bucky steps close to Sam and into his line of sight. “Should I go?”

Sam rouses himself somewhat and gives a neutral hum in reply. He pulls his shirt off gingerly to expose torso littered with bruises and scratch marks among old battle scars. 

Bucky’s eye wanders down to the circular scar, an in and out, on his abdomen and recalls the way Boone’s hand had slipped beneath Sam’s shirt. But he doesn’t say a word as he helps Sam sinks slowly into the steaming bath. The airman lowers himself until the water is up to his chin, knees jutting out of the water like twin peaks. A quiet breath of relief escapes him.

Bucky tries to stay in his eyeline in order to hold his attention. “I’ll put some clothes out for you. If you need anything I’ll be out in the hall.” 

Vacant stare drifts over Bucky then back to a bruise forming along his knee. Sam hums quietly. 

As soon as Bucky steps out into the hall, his phone rings for the fifth time that hour. It’s only ten minutes past. He clears his throat before answering. 

“‘Bout damn time,” Steve replies with barely restrained irritation. “I was two minutes from sending a tact team. Where the hell are you? Is Sam with you?” 

“I’m at Sam’s. He’s here. He…” 

The phone crackles with Steve’s quiet sigh. “He went, didn’t he?”

“I couldn’t force him, Steve.” 

“I know.” A beat. “Is he awake? How does he look?” 

“He...I…” Bucky exhales sharpy, raking his hair out of his face as he leans against the wall. “I fucked up.”

“No, Buck, I shouldn’t have asked. They’ve been doing this well before any of us came along. It was wishful thinking on my part to think they’d stop. He’ll sleep it off and hopefully none of us have to see that mercenary for a long time. You should go home and get some sleep too.”

“I don’t think I could sleep now even if I wanted to.” A slow inhale. “I’m going to stay the morning. He...I should stay.” 

“That Steve?” Sam’s voice echoes in the hall as Bucky hangs up the phone. 

Bucky turns on his heel to meet him. “Hey, uh, yeah. You probably know why.” 

A hum. He is dressed in sweats, arms folded tight across his chest. Lips are pressed tight and his eyes are stuck on a spot on the floor. 

“Are you…” Bucky struggles. Frown twists his mouth and his chest aches. “Is there anything that I can do for you, Sam?” 

Sam lifts his gaze sharply. A look of fear and embarrassment flash across his face. Teeth scrape along lower lip. “I, uh,” brow furrows and voice cracks, “could use a hug.” 

Bucky does not say a word. Phone falls forgotten from his hand to the carpet with a dull thud. Arms open and he takes an elongated step to wrap the other in a careful embrace. Sam unfurls his arms slowly to wrap them around Bucky’s waist, forehead going to rest on the curve of his neck. Bucky settles back on his heels as Sam leans nearly all of his body weight on him. Metal palm works soothing patterns on the other’s back until stuttering breaths ease. 

“Do you want to lie down?” 

Sam shakes his head weakly and mumbles. “I don’t want you to let go.” 

Breathes catches in the back of the throat. “I won’t.” 

Bucky hits the lights and walks Sam back to bed. The smell of hard liquor lingering in his breath.

Sam squirms to get comfortable, burying his face under Bucky’s chin in a way that almost makes him smile. A soft hum of contentment wells up from his chest at the cool metal running up and down the bare skin of his arm, ghosting over bruises. 

“Does that help?” At Sam’s emphatic nod, Bucky slips his hand beneath his shirt to rest his hand on the small of his back. “Is this ok?” Sam hums again. 

Bucky lets the cool vibranium drift slowly down the length of Sam’s back, moving carefully at every flinch or noise of discomfort. It only takes a moment before Sam is out like a light. Bucky counts the other’s ragged breaths until sunrise. Eyes are fixed on Sam is still sound asleep as the easy blue light of morning gives way to the spill of sunlight. Face never loses its ease of slumber. As soon as Bucky begins to detangle himself, eyes crack open. Brow furrows against the too bright light of day. 

“Hey.”

Heart is thundering. “Hey.” 

“Thank you,” Sam says in a breath. 

Ears warm and Bucky is keenly aware of the arm still wrapped around his waist. “Don’t, uh, mention it.” 

Eyes close and Sam relaxes into the sheets to half mumble his words. “You leaving?” Arms tighten somewhat.

Bucky settles back down, pillowing Sam’s head with flesh and blood arm. “No.” 

“Oh,” he breathes softly, sleepily, “that’s good.” 

For most of the day Sam sleeps heavy. Body settles into a collage of bruises while Bucky plies him with pain relievers, snacks, and hot packs. And when he rouses again, he still looks exhausted, eyes are  
still vacant despite the smile on his face when he tells Bucky it’s not too late for that coffee.

Bucky leans against the kitchen counter and props his chin up on his hand to look at Sam standing a few feet away. “I can stay if you want me to.” 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Sam says with a note of indignation.

“That’s good,” Bucky says gently, “cause I don’t babysit.” 

Sam leans back against the counter, arms folded loosely. “I don’t need you to pity me.”

“I think you know damn well I don’t. But, Christ--Sam, you’re barely here. You can barely hold a conversation. And who you’re doing it with? That man killed his entire team--people you’re supposed to trust with your life.” 

“If you’re going to use that against him you should know that I’m the reason why.” 

Eyes narrow. “You expect me to believe that that man--that ghost killed a camp for you?” 

Finger traces the outline of his lower lip in thought. “When you put it that way it almost sounds like he was doing something nice. Like I said, Bucky, Boone is loyal. And I don’t need him to cuddle. I just need his skillset.” 

“I have that skillset,” Bucky says exasperatedly before he has a chance to mentally process his words. Hand waves wildly as if he could somehow erase his words that way. “I meant other people...other people have that skill--there are options, you know.” 

A small smile pulls at the corner of Sam’s mouth. “I don’t hate other people. I can’t do to other people what I can do with Boone. And if other people were you then I really wouldn’t want to.” A beat. “I like you, Bucky. You’re...fundamentally a good man. I can’t ask you to be something you’re not. It was bad timing, Boone and me, but I couldn’t get rid of him now if I tried.”

For a heavy second and not the first time today, Bucky wonders what other life Sam lived out there. What culmination of tragic events could make a man so good? 

“You’ll stay right, Buck?” Sam continues. “We’ll order takeout. It’s the least I could do after you saw me drunk and crying over an ex.” 

“Uh, sure, Sam,” Bucky replies watching Sam to come back to himself somewhat as he stretches, walking stiffly on his way to the living room couch. He moves to sit beside him, settling in as the TV hums to life. “So, what’ll it be?”


End file.
